The Iceman

by P. T. Deutermann

  “We’ve heard that the Gestapo has arrived,” she said, taking his hand and giving it a little squeeze.

  “It’s not like that,” Malachi said. “I think Byng’s a straight-shooter. They just need to know what happened and if anything could have been done differently that would have prevented my losing the boat.”

  She nodded and then steered the conversation away from his personal responsibility for the sinking. “I talked to my dad earlier,” she said. “He said there was a big kerfuffle at Navy headquarters downtown. All hands on deck to deal with outraged inquiries from Canberra. How could a Jap submarine be operating within sight of downtown Perth? Lots more along that line.”

  “We had a similar experience,” Malachi reminded her. “It was called Pearl Harbor.”

  “Yes, well, you get the picture. Your Admiral Marsten’s in the thick of it, apparently.

  There was a knock on the door and Sanford Higgins stepped in. He saw Kensie and made to back out but Malachi waved him in and introduced them. Kensie stood. “I’m back on duty in three hours,” she said. “Nice to meet you, Commander, but my sore feet and I need a nap.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am,” Higgins said.

  Malachi had to hold back a smile when Kensie walked out, beyond Higgins’s line of sight, and mouthed the word “ma’am” with a roll of her eyes.

  “How’s the crew?” he asked. Or what’s left of it he wanted to say, but didn’t.

  “The COB’s holding things together until Pearl decides what’s going to happen,” Higgins said. “But there’s been a big development. Apparently someone at the Aussie naval headquarters lit a fire under the Western Australia sea command, and they put everything that could float out this morning, and I mean everything, tugs, those little coastal supply ships, and even a motorized barge into the Fremantle approaches to see if they could find a Jap sub.”

  “A little late, probably,” Malachi noted with a sigh, knowing that that I-boat would be long gone.

  “Well, not exactly, Captain, because the first thing that happened was that one of the coastals, maybe a six-hundred-tonner, hit what they think was a goddamned mine just before noon today. Blew it to pieces. No survivors out a crew of twenty-five.”

  “A mine? The Aussies have a minefield out there?”

  “They do now, Skipper. Only it isn’t theirs. Apparently sometime before we came back from patrol, there was a Jap sub out there, and that bastard laid down a minefield. The good news is that we had two boats leaving on patrol tomorrow morning. They’ve been delayed until the Aussie Navy can get some sweeps in here to clean house.”

  “You’re telling me we hit a fucking mine? That we didn’t get torpedoed?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what it looks like. The net result hasn’t changed of course, but that’s why the Aussies are so red-faced about what happened. Their HQ had ordered continuous minesweeping operations for both Perth and Brisbane two months ago. Through some snafu, Brisbane got their sweeps, but Perth didn’t. I talked to the harbormaster down in Fremantle, and he said some heads are gonna roll over this colossal ‘cock-up,’ as he put it.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Malachi said. “Except—we got a report just before we got hit about a single ping. McReedie was topside with me. He can verify that.”

  “Don’t know about that, Skipper,” Higgins said. “But that commodore from Brisbane is huddling with the Royal Australian Navy folks here. He interviewed me yesterday afternoon once he’d come to see you.”

  “Seem like a witch hunt to you?”

  “No, sir, I think he’s on the level. Wanted to know what kind of under way watch and matériel condition we’d set while approaching Fremantle. Lookouts. Radar watch. Sound watch. How many engines on propulsion, how many on battery charge. Stuff like that. No trick questions that I could see.”

  Malachi sighed. His chest hurt. “Yeah, that was my impression, too. I’m stuck here for another day at least. Any messages I need to see?”

  Higgins looked at him for a long moment. “Um, no, sir. I don’t think anyone’s sending messages to Firefish anymore.”

  Malachi wanted to give himself a Polish salute. “Right,” he said. “Is Commodore VanBuren taking care of you and the crew?”

  “Yes, sir, he and his staff have been great. He told me they’re waiting to see what the investigation turns up before making personnel reassignments.”

  “That won’t last long,” Malachi said. “At the rate they’re launching boats, you guys will be in great demand.” Then he smiled. “I, on the other hand, probably won’t. You don’t have a cigarette, do you?”

  “Sorry, sir, I don’t smoke. And—” He gestured toward the prominent no-smoking signs on the walls of the room.

  “Yeah, I know. That’s probably why I’m so jittery. They won’t let me have coffee, either.”

  “That’s cruel and unusual punishment, Skipper,” Higgins said. “No caffeine or nicotine? Somebody hates you.”

  Malachi nodded and tried to think of something to say. His chest really hurt now. Then he realized he’d closed his eyes. He struggled to get them open again, but his eyelids weren’t responding.

  “Skipper?” Higgins said. To Malachi, Higgins sounded like he was shouting down a long tunnel.

  It was the following morning when he woke up. There was a mask of some kind covering his nose, and he now had two IV’s. His chest no longer hurt, and the air he was breathing was wonderful. There was a note pinned to his hospital gown: when you wake up, press the button. He pressed the button and a nurse appeared thirty seconds later.

  “There you are, Captain,” she said with a bright smile. “Welcome back. How are you feeling?”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “The docs think you had an episode of AGE: arterial gas embolism. It’s the nastier form of decompression sickness. Tell me, sir, have you been a heavy smoker?”

  He nodded, which was difficult because of the mask. It was, apparently, connected to some serious hoses.

  “Well, then, that’s what’s complicated matters. Your lungs were already compromised. They said you did a free ascent from one hundred eighty feet. Whatever toxins you were breathing down there weren’t completely removed by your time in decompression, so they got into your arteries. That means those pesky little bubbles got to travel all over your body, which is why you went unconscious last night. You gave Dr. Richmond quite a shock, I must say.”

  “Fuck,” he mumbled.

  “Now, now, Captain: there are ladies present. The good news is that the docs think your bloodstream is clearing up, especially with the oxygen treatment.”

  “What’s the bad news?”

  A new voice entered the conversation. “You’ll be here for at least another few days, Captain,” a doctor he hadn’t seen before said. Then he realized that this doctor had an American accent. “And,” the doc continued, “I might as well tell you now: your submarining days are over, I’m afraid. I’m Commodore Byng’s squadron doctor, and you, sir, are lucky to be alive.”

  “I wonder,” Malachi said without thinking.

  The doctor, hearing that, nodded at the nurse, who quickly disappeared, then he sat down. He was in his fifties and a full commander. “Listen to me,” he said. “I have some idea of what you’re struggling with. You were the CO of Firefish. Your boat has been lost, along with not quite half your crew. Now, from the scuttlebutt I’m hearing, the RAN was supposed to be mine hunting and sweeping for the past two months. We Americans assumed they had been, mostly because RAN headquarters told MacArthur’s staff that the two American sub bases, here and in Brisbane, were being kept safe from mines.”

  Malachi struggled to follow where the squadron doctor was going with this.

  “What I’m telling you is that there is no longer such a sharp interest in condemning the skipper who ‘lost’ his boat. Firefish was a famous boat in sub circles. You and your people hurt the Japs, a lot. The US Navy will be looking for a way to put this bad news to bed, and quickl
y. And, also, quietly, if you get my meaning.”

  Malachi closed his eyes and took deep draughts of that wonderful oxygen. Then he opened his eyes. “You’re talking a deal of some kind: no investigation, no outcry against the Royal Australian Navy, no court-martial or Board of Inquiry for me as CO. I get medically disqualified from submarine service. Maybe even medically discharged from the Navy, as long as I go gracefully into the night. How’m I doing?”

  “Brilliantly, Captain,” the doctor said. “Commodore Byng, Commodore VanBuren, and I met with Admiral Marsten last night when the mine theory was confirmed. Admiral Marsten proposed this … solution. What do you say, sir?”

  “My people must be taken care of,” Malachi said. “They all go to new construction.”

  “Absolutely,” the doctor said. “Actually, that’s what Admiral Marsten wants, too. They’re experienced men from one of the hardest-hitting boats in the Pacific. Any precommissioning skipper would kill to get them.”

  Malachi nodded. “Deal,” he said. “And tell the admiral and the commodores that I appreciate their—” He paused, searching for the word.

  “Their consideration?”

  “Yeah, their consideration. Exactly. How will all this be handled?”

  “By senior line officers who know exactly what to do, Captain,” the doctor said. “You get some rest now. The submarine force takes care of its own. The fact that you remained below when you ran out of escape devices has not gone unnoticed.”

  “The reasons behind that might not make good reading, Doctor,” Malachi said.

  “Then never write them down, Captain,” the doctor said as he got up. “Get well.”

  “One last question, Doctor,” Malachi said. “Why did they send a senior medical officer to broker this arrangement?”

  “So that no senior line officers would lose face if you happened to turn it down, Captain. That’s why they’re senior officers.”

  Malachi grinned from the hospital bed. The doctor grinned back.

  THIRTY-THREE

  A week later Malachi found himself ensconced in the cottage at Richmond Station, a move set up by Kensie when she found out he was essentially homeless upon his discharge from the hospital. The rooms at the hotel were for commanding officers; technically, he no longer qualified. They’d offered him a berth on the Otus while he waited for his medical board review and, probably, medical discharge from the Navy, after which, they’d find a way to send him home. Kensie had told Lambert, who was off on another trip, of these developments and he had immediately told her to bring him to the station for convalescence.

  Malachi arrived without any luggage. One of the consequences of losing his ship was that he’d also lost all his personal possessions, including work and dress uniforms, civilian clothes, shoes, his ceremonial sword, and his service and pay records. He’d been able to acquire two sets of work khaki uniforms on the tender, along with a new supply of underwear, socks, toiletries, and uniform shoes. Kensie had then taken him downtown to get some civilian clothes, which, ironically, consisted mostly of more khaki shirts and trousers.

  The first night they went up to the big house for dinner with Margery. It was a quiet affair, as if Kensie and Margery were trying hard to show some respect for Malachi’s losses. They lingered at the dinner table after dinner was cleared away. Margery, who’d enjoyed a decanter of red wine pretty much all by herself, asked Malachi what he was going to do now that his submarine was sunk. Kensie bristled at the question, but Malachi waved her off.

  “Good question, Margery,” he said. “It’s an unusual situation for the Navy, you see, because when submarines are lost there are rarely any survivors.”

  “Oh, dear,” Margery said, suddenly aware that Kensie was glaring at her. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “No, no, it’s a reasonable question,” Malachi said. “I’ve been told by an American Navy doctor that I am no longer physically qualified for submarine duty. Something called AGE, an arterial gas embolism. The Navy will conduct a formal medical review hearing and then make a final determination. They might send me to a surface ship, or back to the States to a submarine training command, or they might even medically discharge me and just pension me off.”

  “But Kensie has told us that you and your submarine are famous, that you’ve been highly decorated and are known throughout the fleet. They can’t just … discard you like that, can they?”

  Malachi smiled. “It’s not personal, Margery. I wouldn’t be much use aboard a cruiser or a battleship, especially since I’m a commander. I’d be a senior officer but without the experience in the surface ship world you’d expect from a three-striper. And, traditionally, when a captain loses his ship, even in battle, he can be expected to be held responsible for that.”

  “Why, that’s ridiculous,” Margery said. “I mean, I understand if there’s cowardice or gross incompetence involved, but as Lambert has often told me, no one can predict how a battle will come out. No one. He was with the ANZACs at Gallipoli, you see. He should bloody well know.”

  Malachi nodded. “The Army has perhaps a more practical outlook on failure in battle,” he said. “But in the Navy, the captain is responsible for everything that happens to his ship, good or bad. You are fully aware of that when you take command. You have the ultimate authority and the ultimate responsibility. Those are the rules, and if you don’t like them, then you don’t become a captain. Personally, I have no problems with that.”

  “But in this case, there were others who failed in their duties,” Kensie pointed out. “We’ve heard that the RAN was supposed to have been minesweeping the Fremantle approaches, but they hadn’t done it.”

  “Well, here’s how I look at it,” he said. “The mine killed half my crew upon impact. The other half managed to close off the rest of the boat, and then we got them all out, myself included. That was a good thing, and if in overseeing that one good aspect of this mess I lose my own submariner ticket, well, that’s just how the cookie crumbles. On the scale of this war out here in the western Pacific Ocean, this is just a minor incident, Margery. Not minor to me, of course, or to the families that I’m going to have to write condolence letters to, but this is a global war. The Navy will salvage what people they can from the sinking, and then press on with the war on Japan.”

  “And how will you cope with all this, Captain?” Margery asked.

  “I’m sad that this happened, but I’m relieved that over half my crew survived. And that I survived.” He looked sideways at Kensie. “There are things and special people worth living for, I think.”

  Margery looked at the two of them. “Well said, Captain,” she replied. “Well said.”

  Back in the cottage, Kensie apologized for her mother’s intrusion into Malachi’s disintegrating professional situation while she changed into a nightgown, but Malachi made light of it. “She knows how we feel about one another,” he said. “So she has a right to know how this is going to come out. Come to bed now; I’m running out of steam.”

  Kensie said she would and then went back outside to her Ute. She came back with the bottle of Kentucky whiskey. She poured each of them a small glass, and then got into bed. They toasted each other, kissed, and then settled into the night in each other’s arms.

  For the following week, Kensie stayed overnight at the station when her surgical shifts allowed, which was not as often as Malachi would have liked. Lambert was still away and Margery became increasingly busy running the station in his absence. She continued to be gracious, friendly, and even sympathetic about what had happened, even though she appeared to know nothing about the American submarine operation down in Perth. She was in her early sixties, and there were times when Malachi wondered if she wasn’t getting a little dotty. He joined her for dinner in the big house each evening except for one night when he’d had some breathing problems.

  The house staff treated him as an honored guest, to the point where they told him to stop making his bed each morning. Sanford Higgins had been coming
out each morning to report on developments with the crew, such as where they were going next. Several of the men had already begun the long trip back to the States, usually via submarines headed back for overhaul. They’d get a month’s home leave, and then report for duty in whichever shipyard their new boat was being built. He also brought along the paperwork that was generated by the loss of a warship, all the fitness reports on the wardroom, and some awards recommendations. Higgins had done all the scut work, so all Malachi had to do in most cases was to sign. He told Higgins that he’d be sent out again as an exec, but that with the fitrep that Malachi was going to write for him, he’d be in the PCO pool pretty damned soon. Then they would indulge in an hour or so of the latest fleet and war gossip.

  By the end of the visit Malachi would be surprisingly tired and would often sleep for two or three hours into the afternoon. He would then get up and go “walkabout” as the station staff called it. The first time he’d tried it they’d had to drive him back to the cottage. After a week, he was able to make it back to the cottage on his own power, but not without knowing there was still something wrong with his cardiovascular system.

  At week’s end, Kensie arrived after a two-day stint at the hospital, bearing a bottle of Scotch whiskey and demanding to be left alone for an entire hour in the cottage bathroom for a hot soak. She came out wrapped in a white terry-cloth robe and plopped down on the bed, a glass of whiskey in hand and her skin wrinkled like a prune.

  “Are you getting better?” she asked in her direct fashion.

  “Most days, yes,” he replied. “Some days, not so much. I start out feeling energetic but then my energy falls off.”

  “Time,” she said. “I consulted with a world-famous pulmonary specialist in Canberra, a Dr. Catlett. Top man in Canberra; member of the Royal Society in London. He said that as long as you didn’t pop an infection, your lungs would recover. He asked if you were a smoker, by the way.”